When I die, please play Mark Kozelek's Trailways at the funeral. When I saw him play solo a few months ago, he kept taking requests from the crowd. I was sitting at a table close enough to hand him a drink, but couldn't, for the life of me, think of the title to that song. The annoying girl behind us kept yelling out "Tiny Dancer! Tiny Dancer!" over and over again, and I couldn't remember the name of his best solo song.

Yesterday driving south on US 101 the traffic slowed down to a crawl as everyone looked at the wreckage on the side of the road. It wasn't a car or a truck, but a burning engine lying on the side of the freeway. A perplexed Cal-trans worker stood nearby and stared at the flaming hunk of metal, waiting for the firetrucks to arrive. There was no vehicle nearby. The engine was all alone.

I want to live on the Pocket Canyon Highway.

The south Mission is getting bad again. They opened the projects back up after remodeling them, and now the streets are filled with hoodlums. Guys staking out the subway station, looking for people to fuck with. Guys sleeping all over the streets, in groups of two or three, hoping for protection from one of their buddies. Guys with slicked back hair following me from the other side of the street as I walk down it. The clerk at my liquor store seemed nervous. All the yuppies are leaving, and the undersireables are moving back to the neighborhood.

For the first time in recent memory, I went on a reading binge last night. I finished half of James Ellroy's My Dark Places on the train and later in bed with the little Eiffel tower lamp shining over my shoulder and Miss Rodeo America asleep. It's been a long while since I've read for more than half an hour at a time. Something about his writing...

There's alot of button pushing going on at work today. People snapping at one another. It could get ugly.

The MP3 of the week isn't up yet, I've been forgetful and suffered from a bit of sunstroke on Sunday. Summer, here, kids.